


clubstuck

by tweeker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drugs, M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweeker/pseuds/tweeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terrible OOC nonsense set in a nightclub</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i can't even explain this  
> i'm sorry  
> (psssttt the 'big girl' is aradia, eri is just a total bitch queen)

It's very rarely you even come out in the evenings, let alone on your own like this. The big she usually came with you when you wanted to go and scout for talent.

And by 'talent' you meant, obviously, people you could trick into sleeping with you. It was difficult without your wingman, in the velvet gloves and handmade pillbox hat, yeah we came together, no we're not together, ahaha. Your meat shields from the maniacs. Your spare pair of eyes. Your dance instructor. Your sharptongued bitch of a friend. She always made this easier. Or at least, less painful going home 'alone'.

This club was just as ridiculous as the last, packed and filthy. The damp, overpriced bar was identical to every other damp, overpriced bar you'd leant against that evening. You sipped your expensive, warm drink, in a charming dirty, chipped glass and began scour one.  
People on their own. Even for a second. People getting pushed out of groups of dancing silhouettes. People that looked intoxicated, mentally fragile.

No? Done Being Sensible? Big she asks you mentally, and you grin.

Okay.

Onto scour two. The letching.

The letching made you really wish you'd invited someone with you. You did feel like a bit of a creep walking about to the music, so played up just enough nobody could call you out for not dancing as you pushed through the crowds. You bounced to the beat, drawing shapes in the air with a glowstick, cutting through sashaying hips and full on jumping seizures.

There were several trolls you got close to in your adventure, some you had almost touched as you moved together.

There were a couple who pretended they hadn't seen him come up besides them, and pointedly ignored you as they danced.

There was one who ceased her raving, turned around, and stared at you until you went away.  
You were pretty much giving up, and you'd barely finished your third drink. Then the fat chick with the long hair crashed into you, giggling light, bubbly giggles. You shoved her, or at least went to, struggling with depth perception in the flashing, multicoloured lights, but then her tiny dance partner glided between you as if nothing had happened, took her by the arm again and led her away in a few fantastically light steps. You followed him with greedy eyes, furious that your first nails and hairpulling fight of the evening had been interrupted.

Whereas the bitch he was dancing with had generous thighs and back, he was slender all over, and despite nearly matching her gargantuan height, looked pretty small. As he shuffled from side to side, skinny wrists encircling her fucking enormous hips, you basically realised he never stood up straight, never standing still. Every single one of his movements had this heavy, elastic force behind it and he was bouncing between bodypopping and the running man and you were basically already hard against the small of his back from all that way away, watching his different coloured shoes jolt around.

Thanfully, the hambeast he'd attached himself to was pretty much a boulder on the dance floor, preferring to rock on the spot and hold onto the dude rather than propel herself around. He danced around her like a fucking maypole, and you were so jealous you wanted to pull her massive hair and take her place. She had him gyrating in those jeans, in arms distance and she was touching his /shoulders/? What the shit?

You note their postures suddenly changing, and she whispers something to him. He freezes while he listens, nodding sternly, and then reaches for his pocket. You watch him take something he had in his pocket, putting it to the back of his tongue and then choking it down with the last of his beer. She nods determinedly, leaning forward to whisper it right into his ear. She's looking at you.

You realise what's happening. You suddenly realise why the situation is so weirdly familiar.

She's his wingman.

You're a target.

You choke a little, and duck off back to the crowd shouting at the bar. Your mouth is dry.  
You need.

You need.

You need some courage or you're going to fuck this one up.

Gamzee's there, and he grins at you, hands you a glass. You shudder as you taste it, all sugary syrup and fizz and artifical fruit flavourings, but there's a sharp chemical tang through it all, reminding you who'd mixed it. His eyes are cloudy and unfocused, and it's obvious he doesn't remember exactly you are, but he offers you some of his drink and a line of white powder off a cigarette box and you accept both.

The bartender actually takes your money and gives you the wrong drink.

You look at the martini with disdain but you know it'll be worthless trying to argue. Gamzee sips the gin as you eat the olives, asks if you wanna pull up a pew with him, gesturing to the bar stool next to him, keep a bro company. Next to the massive bag he had on the floor. He was working. Oh. You tell him maybe later. You'd honestly rather help him burn through his excess stock at the end of a night than go home on your own, so you mean it for once when you say you'll be back evventually.

Feeling your face burn with cold for a few seconds as the speedcokepixiedust kicks in, you sip your revolting drink from the ridiculous glass, looking around for the two-person unit.

Someone bumps your arm a little, and you spill some martini.

Someone bumps your arm a little, and you spill some more martini.  
...  
Fifteen people have bumped your arm a little, and you threw the glass to the floor in disgust a long while ago, and you can see the girls' big, curly hair. You bop closer, getting your well-trained optical zoom examining the surroundings. She's talking to some guy with a ponytail who's acting like she's doing a striptease in front of him, wringing his hands and sweating. He's built like a brick shithouse and he looks so completely uncomfortable and awkward you almost feel a little sorry for him.

He might be a good one to shoot for, actually.

But Those Awful Shorts Worn With Ankle Boots Of All Things Eridan Really, your inner Kanaya mutters disdainfully.

You steel yourself, and decide. She'll know where he is. Unless you've got the situation wrong and they don't know eachother. Then you can get your claws into the sweaty one with the big arms instead. Excellent plan.

You sort of shimmy over, trying to act cool and ignore the gin smell from your sodden shirtsleeve.

Someone touches you on the back, featherlight. You look back absent mindedly, more concerned with what you're going to say to this fat girl than this nutter who wants to borrow a lighter or sell you some e.

He has glasses. Different coloured glasses. They're red and blue, which makes purple, and you're purple, so you pretty much want him already. He's not as short as you thought either, you've only got a few inches on him. He takes a sip from his bottle of beer slowly, and looks you up and down briefly as you stare at his fangs, wondering how he can even have lip piercings and fangs because it's not fair.

"She'th not interethted."

You barely hear what he says. His tongue is forked, almost, and he has a tonguebar in that clinks against his front teeth when he talks.

"Tho back off, okay?"

You wonder what else he's got metal punched through. You're glad you abandoned your one lone earring, because compared to the massive things this kid has stuck through his it was seriously pathetic.

He says something else, but you don't notice anything except the way the tips of his tongue stick to his upper teeth every now and then as he talks.

"Do you wwanna dance?" You ask, hoping to blindside him. It works.

"Yeah, I gueth tho, I-" You're already walking away from the girl, hoping she hasn't spotted either of you.

You both fall into the thrash room by mistake, the loud thumping music halfway between breakbeat and black metal. He laughs at your fallen face and leads you into a little light skanking, and you both take the piss out of the trolls just flat out moshing, and he's so light and frail when you ghost touch him you can't help but want to wrap your arms around him in case he tried to escape. He ducks his head to the side like he's saying 'blow this joint' and you snigger and run down the stairs together, cutting through another bar to find the UV lights, bubble machine and poi spinners.

This floor is a lot more relaxed and the music is so floaty and trippy you can barely follow it at all, but he steps against you so it's only polite to hold his back and keep his pace, at least, keeping your shoulders going in rhythm together. You look up at the projections on the blanketed cieling, watch the swirls of colour as you move with him. He digs into his pocket again and fishes out a pill, flicks it like a nickel, catches it on the back of his hand flawlessly. He drops it back into his thumb and forefinger, and offers. You nod. He presses his fingers against your lips and you try to be subtle about catching them with your tongue as you accept it. Your mouth fizzes and the music crackles and he wraps an arm around your shoulder suddenly and you're so sure he's going to kiss you and

and then he laughs and feeds himself one, his split tongue catching on his own fingertips

and completely fails to kiss you even a little

and he laughs again, a little clucking thing, dry and delicate, and his breath fogs your glasses up even worse, and you feel like such a dork.

He lets go of your neck and shoves you a little, and you're barely offended at the pushing, just deeply heartbroken he's suddenly not so close.

He is really enjoying the wailing sitar music apparently, because his hips are tracing the most ridiculously intricate patterns in the air as he does this insane, flawless, possessed by psychadelic spirits episode dancing, leaving tiny little touches along your collar and chest and arms. You catch his eye, and he sniggers. Caught taking the piss. Brilliant. He knocks it off, and instead you try your damnedest to keep up with his rapid switching from out-and-out raving, clapping his hands and jumping around, to calculated disco shuffling and occasional bouts of radically modern charleston. His biggest earrings glow in the UV.

You note the abandoned facepaint palette a few feet away, and sneak off and back as quickly as possible to retrieve it. He looks at you like he has literally no idea what you're waving that at me for why do you have makeup ii don't

and then you draw a line of bright, glowing white along your nose, like a bandaid. Like warpaint.

he stands totally still and bites his lip while you push his glasses up and streak red and blue around his eyes, pushing the colour out into his hair and towards his horns. He blinks and laughs, and his eyes are the exact same scarlet and cerulean. How about that. He puts his glasses back on, despite your protests, but pockets the palette.

You join right in with the spaced out trippers, swaying and trembling in eachothers arms, gesturing all around as you flail around like you're lost in the woods. Everything is so colourful and ridiculous and you're pretty sure you're just grinding against eachother now, surrounded by poisoned trolls, in this technicolour wasteland. He's pulling your arm again, tugging you away from the lava lamps and fruitjuice bar. You follow him blindly, wondering what time it is and how much of his giddiness is down to Gamzee's freebie, or maybe the pill you'd been fed, or maybe because you haven't eaten today, and just how much of your dopey grinning hornball retardedness was down to the mismatched boy with the wicked metal acne leading you through a set of corridors and stairs you don't know about.

He's looking around a lot like he's keeping an eye out for people, which isn't comforting, but he keeps looking at you like 'almost there' and when he smirks at you, his fangs melt you a little bit more.

You eventually get to a door with a big padlock on it that turns out to not even be attached to anything, just dangling on the handle like, and behind it there's a lot of kegs and cardboard boxes.

And a couch.  
And a mini fridge.  
And a pool table.

You realise from the massive screen in front of you and all the light machines that you're behind the stage where the DJ is.

He reaches out for you, and instead of just poking you on the arm he goes for your hand. You lace your fingers into his so gladly, and let him pull you towards the sofa. The music pounds across every surface of everything, and the light changes so often you're both swimming in rainbows constantly, patterns and flashes making it absolutely impossible to do anything but stare at him.

He whispers something into his giant teeth, and you kneel between his legs, your cuban heels between his odd, massive hightop sneakers. You can't hear a goddamn thing but you want this and you've got the best damned seat in the house for once.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa troll biology like a motherfucker  
> next bit will be in another chapter because i need to sleep tonight

He claims your lips in a surprisingly gentle smooch, and you wonder what the hell happened to his fangs. He's threading his hands along the small of your back, untucking your shirt as he does.

You dare flicker your eyes back open to drink in the psychadelic rainbow show, but you end up staring at the eyebrow studs and worn out hairgel instead of the giant screen of trickling patterns and revolving colours. All the hues in the world twisting every which way and you were only focused on this dork in the skinny jeans, and he flutters his tonguebar against the roof of your mouth as he leans up like he knows you're thinking about him.

His kisses are graceful and calculated and you wonder if there's anything he does that doesn't set your skin aflame. His skeleton fingers, long and slender and never still, are going to work on your waistcoat buttons. He loosens your tie a little, just enough to unfasten your shirt underneath it, and then wraps it around his fist in one smooth motion, pulling you closer.

His mouth is a little dry and all you can taste is beer and cigarettes on him. You're still drowning, intoxicated as your tongues entwine and he withdraws a hand from the back of your shirt to toy with your gills.

You choke a little at the gentle pulls to your extra breathing apparatus, not expecting that sudden contact. He peeks through his eyelashes at your sudden change in expression.

"Thorry, uh, doeth that hurt?" He mumbles something but you can't make out a single word he's saying through the thick curtain of bass and sugary female vocals that hang around you both. He looks worried though, stroking your fins so carefully with his thumb in a delicate apology. You whimper in protest at the gentle treatment, butting his hand with your cheek as if giving permission.

He smirks a little, feeling the fimbriae tremble against his touch. "Oh, are thethe thenthitive?" He says something and his tongue flashes against his teeth but you can't hear it at all, so you just stare at the glowing fingerpaint around his eyes in awe.

He smiles, and ducks forward and there's warm and wet and

oh god

and he's suckling lightly on every little tendril and this is so intimate and ridiculously arousing you are kind of glad you're quite drunk, because you might cry and you need something to blame.

He's still hanging onto your tie, holding you nice and still in place and you're pretty much frozen at this terrible angle so he could tongue and nibble your stupid fins.

He must sense your awkwardness, because he scoots his skinny backside further along the couch and pulls you towards him by the neck, and you suddenly have enough space for your legs. He finally releases the very tip of the last section of your gill from his mouth in a soft smack and you're gasping for air like the biggest idiot fish so much you don't even notice him straddling your lap, kicking his shoes off and rubbing your back with mismatched socks that glow in the UV light.

You consider worrying about your incredibly engorged bone bulge but as he wiggles deliciously on your thighs, light and sharp as a praying mantis, you feel something reassuringly hot against your exposed abdomen.

You thread hands around his back gingerly, feeling his bony shoulders and compact muscle with awed fingers. He'd wound his arm around you to stroke athrough your hair, his fingers tracing lazy polygons across your scalp. Eridan, your hands shake like nothing else as you reach nervously for his arse. He hums appreciatively, wrapping some fingers around one of your horns and stroking idly like he's getting to know the points and dents personally. Your breath gets caught in your throat, and you grab his backside much more roughly than you'd planned because you're totally caught off guard. He presses his hips into your stomach and for just a second, you can feel how hard he is. You caress the curve of his ass into his thighs hungrily, the rough of his jeans making your skin tingle.

He murmurs near your forehead and you don't catch it over the pumping music and you're kind of preoccupied because his skinny backside is the most wonderful thing you've ever had the honour of feeling up.

You remember the last time you came here, you'd had to bring Fef because she was just too excited at the prospect of dancing with you and Kanaya to let it go. She danced like it was her fivesweep wriggling celebration, and you'd held onto her waist trying to look cool and indifferent and not completely and totally in love with her.

She was shaking her hair and hips around like nobody's business, and you'd gone to put your arm around her, and you'd felt the edge of her vest pushed to one side. You were touching her bra strap. You pretended not to notice. That tiny little ridge in the fabric was all you could concentrate on for an hour.

Now, at the time you honestly thought you'd never be so turned on in a nightclub.

Then someone leans forward, hot pantsbulge against your stomach, and starts lapping at one of your horns.

You honestly keen, with your eyes squeezed shut tight in the flashing lights.

You whimper like nothing else, but you manage to fumble with his zipper enough to get his jeans down just a little.

Just enough to give you soft cotton boxerbriefs to feel through rather than rough denim. Just enough to get his trapped bulge pressed up nicely against you and you can feel the stickiness leaking, leaving damp trails along your abdomen. He's loving it, buzzing a warm hum around the mouthful of the base of your horn he'd been tonguing.

"Wwhat's your name?!" You scream over the music, cupping his ass lightly.

He mouths something back and you miss it completely and he has to press his mouth up next to your ear and shout it back.

"Tholluckth! I'm Tholluckth!"

You tell him your name and he shrugs and nods but Tholluckth is the best name you've ever heard so you squeeze his butt in appreciation.

Tholluckth whines a little as you slide your hands into his underwear, drinking in the feel of his taut skin. You are desperate to make him make more noises, noises you might be able to actually hear rather than feel. You reach greedily along his prominent hipbone to get to his weeping bulge and

bulges

his bulges

You try your hardest not to freak out, and you wonder for the first time what colour his blood is.

In the flashing lights with blue and red neon streaked across his face it's difficult to tell.

No wonder he carried himself with such reserved confidence. Lucky fucker.

Lucky you, skitting your fingers around the front of his shorts, eager to get to know the twins.

He exhales hard into your hair, blowing hot air on your scalp, your saliva-wet horns and you gurgle needily at the sensations.

He pushes his pelvis back into your touch with a shudder, hissing approval around your horns as you dare to circle the openings with fingertip, tracing a loopy figure-of-eight around both heads, your rubbing as delicate as you can manage with trembling hands.

He rubs into you greedily, lapping sloppily at you while you jack him off with one hand. Your fingers are slick with his fluids and you're kind of mournful for your shirt cuffs at this point but there's no way in hell you're stopping.

You roll his underwear down to his thighs to get a proper look and he scrapes his teeth on your horns. The pair of you yelp together, him biting down just too hard to not be playing, and you giving his acid sacks a little squeeze, just to see what happens.

You're a little upset there's no metal stamped through his cocks but at the same time, he's narrow and a little crooked and you're pretty sure one's a little longer than the other, matching his horns, and you want them both.

He is also painfully hard and oozing all sorts of tasty looking lubrication. You could taste the warm spice of his yellow blood in his mouth, you were sure. That explained everything.

You retract your grip on him to rub at his chest a little, getting an idea, and there's a wet pop as he pulls his lips away from your poor molested horns.

He looks at you in confusion, and you just tip him backwards. He lands on his back a little startled, legs still up around your hips, and goes to fight his situation before you pin him to the couch with one hand.

He raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses. You smile sheepishly, and kiss his stomach, through his shirt. He seems to get the message, laying still-ish, not fighting too hard when you have to wrestle his shoes off to remove his tight pants.

His socks really are mismatched.

One is yellow and black-striped, and comes up to the beginning of one slender thigh. The other is solid chessboard checkers and crops below a bony knee. The yellow and the white pulse at you in the mood lighting and the curvature of Tholluck's physicality emphasised before you through geometric shapes is almost too much to bear.

Then he rolls his hips underneath your tremoring hands and you remember his two sopping bulges, waiting for your attention. It's difficult to not pounce on them but you retain a little dignity, taking one length in your hand and getting your lips around the head.

He threads a hand into your hair automatically, forefinger and thumb encircling the base of one of your horns and as you push your mouth further, swashing the wetness of your tongue across him in lazy sweeps, he plays you like a harp.

Spread out before you with his tiny t-shirt hiking up to expose a plane of narrow stomach, his beautiful insane coloured legs flashing on either side of you, quivering as you worked, he flushed gold. You were sure that wasn't a trick of the crazy lights and artifical smoke gushing on the other side.

He was playing nicely enough for you to get our other hand working as well, splattering yourself with excess fluids when you got a little carried away. You noticed him watching you, so you lapped some from your upper lip, as if your entire mouth tasted of anything else. He rolled his head back, biting into his lower lip with those damned teeth, and pushed eagerly back towards your mouth. You swapped for a little while, to see if the angle was any easier. You suckled hungrily at the tip of his bulge, tonguing the opening and everything that was leaving it, while milking the other length underneath your face.

From the way his hips twitched and he hyperventilated, you figured he liked it. You tested his method, buzzing a little, trying to spread the vibrations all the way along your tongue, and he jolted hard enough to push against the back of your throat. You choke, mouth overflowing, other hand still going automatically, and then he does it again.

You breathe through your cheeks, though your gills were kinda dry and it was difficult. You don't want to pass out, not while you're four seconds away from coming in your pants, with a mouthful of bulge.

You look up at him with wet eyes and desperately flailing fins, and he tongues his fangs staring right into you, holding you in place by the horn.

You tongue the base of his dick in the limited room you have, moving with difficulty underneath him. He releases your horn, and lets you bob back for air. You take it, gasp once, move around the spit in your mouth, moisten your lips, and impale yourself on his other bulge, reaching to thumb the slit at the tip of the one in front of you.

He comes almost gracefully, tensing up all the way over and freezing completely for what feels like an eternity of waiting, anticipating the wave.

Then a second jolt runs through him and he's screaming something but you're sure it's just a cuss so it doesn't matter it was lost to the house music, and then your mouth is full, overfull, dribbling fluid onto his hips and thighs and before you can appreciate how beautiful that is there's more of it, spraying into your face and dripping off your eyelashes and glasses, and you react in time for once. You open your mouth and manage to catch some more on your tongue.

You blink, sodden, soaked. He's laughing a little bit, moving like he's thinking of putting his pants back on which is funny because you were just wishing you'd taken your fucking shirt all the way off before that happened.

He slides his boxers back up his legs and you watch them the whole way. He's fumbling for something else in the pile of discarded clothes that's accumulating and you have literally no idea what that box is but he's seriously laughing at it, whatever it is.

He wipes some spooge off your glasses in one swipe, and then off your nose in another. You tremble. He produces the paints, the ones you rescued. The paint you'd been thinking you'd met him with. He loads his fingers up with grease and you go to protest but he's going over your super clever music history markings with gold glittery yellow, a stripe all the way across your face plastered on thick with two fingers.

"Mine," he mouths, and you moan deeply.

He wriggles down on top of you this time, and kisses you. Your lips are still slick from his release and he seems all too aware of that as he tongues you gingerly. You kiss back as hard as you can, desperate for him to taste himself and reach your level of depravity.

He shoves your (mostly damp) shirt and waistcoat off, rubbing appreciatively at your shoulders like he was impressed with them. The thought of impressing him inflates you greatly, so you try to haul yourself out of your shoes and slacks in relative ease rather than fumbling around like you're worried you will.

He pounces on you almost immediately with sharp little fingers and big, sharper teeth, gnawing along your collar and tracing combs into your chest with his nails. He mouths his way along most of your torso, actually, and you're total putty in his hands from the moment he started so you can't manage much more than teasing a grip on his horns, scratching when he bites down.

When he reaches your chest gills, the delicate ones, the ones you actually need to live, he laps gently at the slits and keeps his teeth to himself most of the way. You're so jumpy about him even getting so intimate with your actual airholes, he must notice.

He placates you with a remarkably gentle kiss just to one side, but you twist under him until he can't ignore your erection. You liked that. Far, far too much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luckylungs wanted a facial  
> so i spoiled her
> 
> uhhh i don't know if i want to write more of this or not but's been left open for me to do whatever the fuck i want with it

He meets your eyes through the dusky, flashing lights, through the deep haze of arousal clouding your vision, his gaze sharp and penetrating, and quirks an eyebrow, and there's a clink of something on his glasses and you realise, yes, he has fucking metal there as well, identical on both sides, how did you not notice those fucking things when you smeared paint over them?

With one smudge of dark hair and two tiny beads raised over the top of his blue lens, staring right into you, he mouths at you. "What?"

You stare back at him, frozen, desperate for more of whatever the fuck that was, but not sure how to ask.

He smiles, his teeth all scissorblades , his lower lip curling viciously, the twin studs there catching the yellow light.  
He lowers his head, sniggers, and laps at your gills with the utmost care and grace of a surgeon. With his fucking pointed, bifurcated tongue. Scraping the bar, the chill metal, against the wet.

You're not sure how you've lasted this long, really. You stroke at his shoulders, feeling your face flush underneath your new makeup.

His fingers are trailing lower, to your hips, to your belt buckle, to your flies. He's accenting the butterfly kisses he's dotting around your gills with his tongue and you're losing your fucking mind.

Then he finds his way into your pants and walks two fingers up your bulge, painfully slowly. The music washing over the pair of you is whispers in the darkness compared to the collapsing and expanding of your vascular system. He curls his fingers around your width in a lazy, loose grip, and you hiss delicious promises and threats into the air, to be washed away by the roar of music and cheering.

Your eyes are squeezed shut so tight because you don't think you can hold out for any great period of time with him lapping at your sensitivity, piercing your being with his gaze. Then the hand around your bulge retreats, and you gasp in sudden shock, as if you couldn't function without it.

There's a wet noise, and you peek through your eyelashes, and catch him scraping the flat of his tongue along his fingers. His fingers glistening, he closes his grip back around you, starts firmer and faster than he was before, and you shake and wail underneath him.

There's a wet splat somewhere in the ever-shifting warm, damp pressure. You realise faintly he's spat into your handjob, and somehow, that's the most beautiful thing that's ever happened.

He might be shouting, but over the trance music, you can't hear anything except your own panicky pleading.

He pokes you in the stomach. You glance down, meeting those sharp eyes through the coloured lenses. He sticks his tongue out and points at it sardonically, stretching the fork wide for you. You fight your damnedest to not just explode in his face then, but you manage to just nod a little like, _yeah, that's cool_.

He keeps his eyes trained on you while he tastes your cockhead fastidiously, fluttering his tongue everywhere you're sensitive and delicate and not being weirded out by the vestigal fins there, and you're hoping he's okay with the way they tend to anchor onto warm things after your orgasms because there's no way to rip them off. But no, he's a total dicksucking champ, tonguing your shaft from base to tip before he resumes suckling.

His mouth is so tight and wet you can't fucking believe your luck. He's opening his throat good and wide for you to fuck, and he's watching your reactions carefully from behind his glasses. He's moving himself, swirling his tongue a little, but he's totally asking you for this so it's okay and-

you're pulling his mouth wide open so his tongue lols on his lower lip, and all the metal shot through his skin glints in the light like a fucking invitation.

He stares back at you with watery eyes while you push against the back of his mouth roughly, beyond coherency and tact and grace as you just force into his welcome mouth and every little wet gag and catch of air he splutters through gets you even harder. The corners of his mouth shone with loose spittle and you're feeling him choke for oxygen around you when it starts to hit you, breaking you apart.

You're planning on holding him in place while you shoot your load direct into his face but he is having none of that, suddenly so strong on top of you, pulling back to lap at the head and reinvolve those slender fingers.

Somewhere in the chaos of overpowering you and pinning you and getting his mouth back on you, he's managed to get his shirt off.

His bare shoulders are the sexiest you've ever seen and he sniggers with your cockfins clinging to his lips and you feel it all the way into your balls and

and then you're coming, harder than you can remember coming for months, shaking and actually shouting, and he just fucking waits there, staring into you, tongue hanging out of his mouth, while you splatter purple over his face, his glasses. As some of the blood in your body returns to your brain you take another heavy drink of the sight before you.

His eyelashes are frosted in violet, and the fluid on his face is running his blue and red facepaint together to make even more of the precise shade of purple you've just sprayed all over his cheeks.

He's keeping his eyes shut, just, and laughing something, but you can't understand it. You push his sticky glasses up into his hair, and draw a trembling line through the purple mixture adorning his nose like the sexiest accessory you've ever seen.

You streak red and blue and purple, all together, mixed but seperate, along his shoulderblades and you mouth 'mine' and he laughs like you've just told him the best joke ever, razor teeth clacking and sodden, sticky spectacles falling back in front of his eyes.

You fall together, horizontal all of a sudden because who the fuck can be bothered sitting up? He rubs at his face and hair with a towel, gives up, and collapses in front of you. You shake behind him for ten minutes, wondering where you could put your hands, and then you surrender, reaching out to hold him. And to your total surprise, he's not too bad to spoon with.  
He's got twin studs in the nape of his neck that catch you by surprise, his elbows and shoulderblades are pretty much jackknife sharp, and his ribcage is so narrow and brittle feeling you're worried you might just break him, like a bird.

You lay together on the sweaty couch until the music stops hours later, and the lights turn off, one by one, and then all you can hear is people shouting, for a little while, and Tholluckth is wriggling in your arms like he's wanting something and you realise you're actually pretty cold.

Then you wake up with fluffy hair in your face and a miniature boys frame in your arms and you're not so cold because at some point you've grown a blanket and you can hear what you suspect to be a washing machine in the distance.

You kiss the scalp in front of you, and squeeze him closer to you.

He squawks and wriggles around like he'd forgotten who you were. You convince him to lay still with you, but when you go to kiss him he just ducks his head away like he's embarrassed.

He sits up after a few minutes of awkward silence, fishing through the pile of discarded clothes for his pants, and retrieves a box of cigarettes. A ten deck. A little one. You think about how well you've been doing quitting so far and how proud everyone is of you. Then you watch his lips while he takes a pull, and you can't resist.

You put your bare feet on the stone floor his odd socks are dangling above, and together you share it. You pass it back and forth like a peace pipe.

"I'm Tholluckth. I didn't know if you heard." He smiles a little, but it feels kinda forced, and he offers his hand.

You ignore it, wrapping an arm around his waist instead. "I'm Eridan. I wwas listening to ya, Thol, don't wworry."

He snarls around the cigarette. "Are you taking the fucking pith? That'th not funny."

Oh god, his voice. You want to drown in it. Every one of his little, vicious 'ethes' was like being licked by him all over again. You bite your lip and try again.

"Sol? Is that right?"

He sneers, taking a massive pull on the smoke and then tossing it over the edge of the stage before you can argue.

"Don't forget it, ath-hole."

He moves to get up, and steps away from the arm you reach out to him with.

"Wwill I evver see you again? Sol?"

He looks back at you with a raised eyebrow. "I've got work in thix and a half hourth, you can thleep it off here, but you can't thtay."

You whine a little, hating yourself for letting the pathetic noise escape.

He sighs. "Come back in five dayth. I work in the ground floor bar, I finish 4 hourth before curfew."

 

You raise an eyebrow at 'curfew' before you remember the blood discrepancy between you.

There's an awkward silence.

You get to your feet, pull your slacks back on, and approach him. He won't turn to look at you.  
You wrap your arms around his middle and pull him close. He sighs, but he doesn't untense his back. You plant the gentlest kiss you can summon on the side of his neck.

You won't let this be a one night stand.  
You won't.


End file.
